Authors: William Diehl
Tags: #Europe, #Irish Americans, #Murder, #Diplomats, #Jews, #Action & Adventure, #Undercover operations - Fiction, #Fiction--Espionage, #1918-1945, #Racism, #International intrigue, #Subversive activities, #Fascism, #Interpersonal relations, #Germany, #Adventure fiction, #Intelligence service - United States - Fiction, #Nazis, #Spy stories, #Espionage & spy thriller
The Hunt aka 27 (56 page)
“No, but if anyone else moves an inch, you’ll be the first to die.”
He backed to the window and looked outside. Through the storm he saw someone running toward the dining room. Behind him was the prow of the shrimp boat, tilted crazily against the dock. No sign of the sub.
Keegan chased the German sailor through the storm but the gunner got to the clubhouse first, scrambling onto the porch and rushing through one of the French doors. Keegan was twenty feet behind him as the sailor burst into the dining room.
Twenty-seven whirled as the sailor staggered through the door and shot him twice in the chest. It was only after the body jackknifed to the floor that the one-time actor realized what he’d done. The room erupted with screams of alarm. Twenty-seven twisted and looked through the open door. For a second, in an explosion of lightning, he saw Keegan huddled in the rain, saw him raise his arm, heard the pistol shot. It skimmed 27’s cheek, took off his earlobe and as he spun out of the doorway he fired several shots at the sodden figure. But Keegan had already vanishe
d
in the darkness.
-
Willoughby, totally confused, stared down at the dead U- boat crew man.
“My God! You killed one of our own.”
“You damn fool, the sub’s finished.”
“No,” the Englishman cried out. “No, it can’t be.” He started toward the door which was still open and banging in the wind. With an animal growl, Allenbee fired a burst into Willoughby. The bullets ripped into the older man’s chest and knocked him backward across a table in a shower of dishes, glasses and food. He sprawled there, arms outstretched, his legs dangling off the floor.
The dining room went crazy. Screaming guests suddenly panicked and rushed toward the rear doors. Twenty-seven realized he had lost control of the situation. His nemesis was out there somewhere and he was a perfect target in the brightly lit room. He grabbed a chair, threw it through a window and leaped out behind it.
A moment later a sodden Keegan rushed into the dining room. The chaotic mob turned instantly toward him.
He held up a hand. “My name’s Keeg
a
n, I’m with the U.S. Intelligence Service. Please
. . .
everybody stay in this room. If you go outside you’ll confuse things eve
n
more. If he comes back instead of me, kill the son of a bitch. There’s a wounded man in the shrimp boat down at the pier. He needs help.”
He stared down at Lady Penelope Traynor. “And keep your eye on her highness there.”
He jumped through the shattered window after 27.
The machine pistol chattered and a string of bullets ripped the mud behind Keegan as he landed and rolled behind a tree. Another burst tore into the tree. Keega
n
rolled over on the ground, fired several shots into the rainy darkness, then jumped to his feet, ran back to the side of the clubhouse and crouched in the darkness, listening. He heard only th
e
rumble of thunder, the splatter of rain. He worked his way to the corner of the building and waited for lightning to brighten the compound.
Twenty-seven moved backward through the trees like a cornered fox. He too waited for nature to illuminate their battleground.
A jagged streak in the sky. A dark for
m
dodging from one tree to another. He fired another burst of the pistol, was met immediately by several shots in return. He backed into the wall of a building. Startled, he whirled with a cry. Another shot smacked the wall an inch from his head. He crouched and ran along the side of the building, realized it was the indoor tennis court, found the door. It was locked. He smashed the window with his elbow, reached in, unlocked the door and jumped inside.
Fifty feet away, Keegan heard the window break and hurried toward the sound. He saw the door, its window shattered, in the long, low building and raced up to it, flattening himself against the wall. Inching his way to the opening and facing the wall, he stretched his arm around the jamb and fired two shots blindly into the building. They were answered instantly with a burst from 27’s machine pistol. Bullets chewed up the doorjamb. He was obviously across the indoor court somewhere.
Keegan ducked low and dashed into the darkened court. Another burst of gunfire followed him. He felt the hot searing pain as a bullet ripped through his shoulder. But he scampered across the floor and lurked in the darkness next to a scorekeeper’s table, listening. He touched his shoulder and flinched. The bullet had pierced the fleshy part just under the shoulder blade and exited.
He squinted in the darkness. The big room looked ominous, with its tennis net stretched from one side to the other and dark corners offering refuge to his enemy.
Where was he
Keegan wondered.
In an opposite corner, 27 lurked and waited in darkness, just as determined to get rid of Keegan. He had to quell his anger to keep it from clouding his judgment. He had come too far, waited too many years, to fail completely. His mind formulated a new plan. The operation was not a total loss. First he had to kill the intruder.
Ja, he would eliminate his nemesis and then return to the clubhouse. There he would kill Yankee millionaires until his ammunition was gone, then swim across to the marsh and make it to the mainland. He still had funds in New York. With luck, he could make it back to Germany.
But first things first. Where
was
the American?
A hundred feet away, Keegan checked his resources. Too much rain and thunder to hear his enemy breathing.
Keegan slowly reached down to the bucket, took a tennis ball, threw it across the room into a dark corner. Twenty-seven spun immediately and fired in its direction. Bullets ripped into the wall. Then suddenly, the gun stopped firing. There was the unmistakable sound of metal on metal as the firing pin snapped on the empty chamber. Enraged, 27 threw the empty pistol across the room and as he did, Keegan grabbed the bucket of tennis balls and threw them at the Nazi. They bounced around him, bounded underfoot, bounced off the walls and disoriented the German agent. Twenty-seven saw Keegan rise from behind the table and lurched toward him but he stepped on a tennis hail and then another. His legs pedaled frantically under him as he fought to keep from falling. Keegan leaped from the darkness, buried a shoulder into 27’s stomach and they vaulted through the window, tumbled in a shower of glass and wood into the mud outside.
Rage replaced common sense for 27 was insane with frustration and anger.
Mein Gott!
he thought.
Is all our planning going to end on this ridiculous spit of land?
Never!
If nothing else he would kill this Yankee bastard.
Twenty-seven grabbed at his calf, pulled the SS dagger from its sheath. He struggled to his knees and as Keegan jumped toward him, 27 slashed out with the knife. Its blade buried in Keegan’s cheek and sliced upward through his eye socket, biting into his skull. Pain exploded in Keegan’s face and he almost blacked out. But he was too close, he’d come too far. He wouldn’t, couldn’t fail. The pain was nothing compared to Jenny’s pain, to the pain of all of 27’s victims. Keegan grabbed 27’s wrist, twisted it up and away from him, heard the bone snap and saw the dagger flip away. Still hanging on, he smashed 27 in the face with his fist, then hit him again and again, knocking the German backward until 27 pulled free. The Nazi staggered out of his reach. In the flashing lightning, he saw Keegan glaring at him with his good eye, his face twisted in hatred and rage.
Twenty-seven darted sideways and slashed his foot out, burying it in Keegan’s stomach. Keegan’s breath burst from his lips and he was slammed back against the wall of the tennis court. He fell to his knees as 27 closed in on him. Bleary-eyed, he saw the gleaming blade of the Nazi dagger lying in the mud, its handle an inch from his hand. He snatched it up and as 27 grabbed Keegan’s shoulder, the American swung his arm blindly. The blade glittered in a flash of lightning. Keegan felt it strike, rip through flesh as he completed the swing and fell back to his knees.
Siebenundzwanzig
shrieked in pain. He swayed backward, clutching his throat, hit a tree and collapsed at its base. Keegan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it against his throbbing eye. He struggled to his feet and looked down at
Siebenundzwanzig.
Pain racked 27’s body; hot fire coursing down from his throat, down to his fingers and toes. Everything was going numb. In the jagged bursts of light, he saw his enemy face-to
face for the first time. He tried to cry out but his vocal cords were ruined. He couldn’t breathe. The salt of his blood filled his mouth. He was numb all over.
His mouth bobbed silently as he made one last attempt to verbalize his rage and hate. Nothing.
The Nazi arched his back against the tree, gasping for breath, his anguished wheeze suffocated by his own blood. His windpipe and jugular had been severed by the slashing dagger. His feet thrashed in the mud and then began to shake uncontrollably as he literally choked to death. He stiffened and cried out, a stifled, pitiful animal whimper. Then he fell sideways in the mud.
Keegan stared down at his dead enemy. Twenty-seven’s mouth gaped open. Rain spattered on his glazed eyes. Blood seeped into the murky puddles around his face. Keegan staggered to his feet, leaned against the wall of the tennis court. For the first time in too many years, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
He made his way back toward the clubhouse, walked unsteadily into the dining room, a blood-soaked handkerchief pressed against his eye, his shoulder a soggy mess, the dagger still clenched in his hand.
“Get the doctor,” someone said.
Keegan did not slow down. He brushed through the confused crowd in the dining room and walked to Lady Penelope Traynor’s table. She stared at him with fear. He raised the hand with the dagger and slashed it down. The dagger’s point bit into the table and it stuck there. A hint of blood glistened on its wet blade. Lady Traynor stared bleakly at the weapon, at the swastika and the SS runes on the handle, the symbols of her vanished power.
“Sorry, Lady Penelope,” Keegan rasped, “the wedding’s off.”
Austria:
May 7, 1945
The American jeep drove rapidly up the dirt road toward the burned-out ruin of a castle, spewing dust out behind it. An American wearing a worn leather jacket with the gold leaves of a major pinned to the shoulders and an army officer’s hat cocked on the back of his head sat beside the driver. He wore no other uniform. His pants were brown corduroy and his shirt was dark blue wool. A black patch covered his right eye and a thin scar etched from under it down across his cheek.
In the backseat, a dark-haired, bearded man leaned back with his arms stretched out on the rear of the seat. He was wearing dark work pants, a black turtleneck sweater and a tweed cap. His rifle lay casually across his knees.
Beside the road were forlorn remnants of the Third Reich. Burned-out German tanks, staff cars, a motorcycle or two lay abandoned in ditches along the narrow roadway. Weary but smiling GI’s, sitting along the shoulders, tossed half-hearted salutes at the major with the patch over his eye as
the jeep
passed.
The radio was tuned to Armed Forces Radio. A GI disk jockey was babbling with excitement and had been for an hour. His voice was beginning to crack from the strain.
“That’s right, all you GI Joes out there, it’s all over! The war in Europe is over. At two-forty-one A.M., Germany unconditionally surrendered. Remember this day, guys, it’s
Liberation Day!
May seventh, 1945, the day we won the war.
.
The major leaned forward and snapped off the radio.
“Geez, Major Keegan,” the driver said, “the war’s over.”
“It isn’t over till it’s over,” Keegan answered.
The bearded man in the backseat said nothing. He stared straight ahead.
The sergeant pulled up in front of the ancient German castle, swung the jeep in a tight arc and parked in front of a long, wide flight of marble steps that led to the entrance. Keegan and his companion jumped out and started up the stairs. An American flag waved from a flagpole attached to the arch over the door.
The Gothic structure had not fared well in the fighting south of Munich. Its windows were blown
o
ut
and covered with tattered canvas. One wing of the château had been bombed and now lay in ruins. The roof on the main house was burned out and the face of the old place was scorched.
A military police corporal looked suspiciously at Keegan’s makeshift uniform and the leaves on his shoulder before finally deciding to salute.
“Corporal, I’m Major Keegan. This is my aide. I think you’re expecting me.”
The corporal straightened up when he heard the name.
“Oh, yes sir! Right this way, sir.”
He led the two men into the gloomy interior of the place. Ceilings towered above a wide marble hallway. The grand staircase ended abruptly just before it reached the first floor. A gaping hole in the wall behind it had been boarded up.
“This place is a mess,” Keegan said.
“Some Kraut general was using it for a command post,” the corporal said. “A squadron of P-51s really kicked the shi
.
excuse me, sir, kicked the crap out of the place.”
“You can say
shit
in front of me, Corporal,” Keegan said. “I’m old enough to vote.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened to the general?”
“I hear they scraped him off the wall. We found the old man hiding down in the wine cellar. He was a sight.”
They walked almost to the end of the hall. The corporal nodded toward a door.
“In there, sir.”
“Thanks. Congratulations, Corporal.”
“What for, sir?”
“Winning the war, kid,” he said, and entered the room.
It had once been a library, although one wall had been blown away. Remnants of books littered the room. Soaring bookshelves dominated two other walls while the fourth wall was an enormous stained glass window which somehow had escaped the bombardment. A rolling ladder provided access to the upper bookshelves.
An army cot squatted in a corner of the room with an olive drab army blanket thrown carelessly across it. The only other thing in the room was a large, hand-carved oak desk. Like the window behind it, it was unscathed.
The old man sat hunched over behind the desk, a stack of books to one side, another opened in front of him. He was taking notes on a pad of army paper. His disheveled hair was as thin as mist and pure white. His eyes were dark hollows in a sallow face. He needed a shave. A hand-made shawl was thrown over his rounded shoulders.
He looked up through faded eyes as Keegan and his aide crossed the room, kicking book leaves out of the way. They stood in front of the desk. The bearded man was in the shadows.
“Professor Wilhelm Vierhaus?”
The old man looked up.
‘
J
a?”
“You are under arrest, Professor.”
“I have been under arrest for over a week, Major.”
“No, you’ve been detained. As of today you would probably have been free to go, since you are officially a civilian and the war is over. But I have a warrant here for your arrest. The specific charge is murder in the first degree.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Murder, Professor. You are a civilian and you are charged with murdering a civilian.”
“Who?”
‘Specifically, Jenny Gould.”
“Jenny He shook his head, trying to remember.
“Her brother was Avrum Wolffson.”
Vierhaus looked up with shock. His eyes narrowed.
“The Black Lily?”
“That’s right. You sent his sister to Dachau and she was murdered there.”
“And you are charging me with that?” he said, almost sneering.
“That’s right. Not only charging you, Vierhaus, but I intend to see that you are prosecuted and hanged.”
“I did not kill anybody!”
“You sent her to Dachau to die.”
“And who are your witnesses, sir?”
“Her brother for one. Perhaps it’s time you met. You’ve been trying to kill him for twelve years. Av?”
The bearded man stepped from the shadows into the light streaming in the window.
“Professor, this is Avrum Wolffson.”
Vierhaus reacted with a combination of emotions: surprise, hatred, curiosity. Fear.
“Jenny Gould was his sister. She was arrested and ultimately murdered in an attempt by you to get her to turn him in.”
Vierhaus turned his attention back to Keegan.
“Who
are
you?” he said with awe. “Do I know you?”
“We met once, Willie. In a steam bath at the Grand Hotel.”
“Steam bath?” He studied Keegan’s face.
“I didn’t have the patch then.”
But Vierhaus did not recognize Keegan. Keegan took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Vierhaus.
“Perhaps a smoke will relax you, stir your memory.”
He took out the gold lighter with the wolf’s head, held it close to Vierhaus, then flipped open the top and struck it. Vierhaus stared at the lighter, then back at Keegan.
“This is my good luck charm, Willie. Carried it all the way through this stinking war. Every time things got rough I’d rub it for good luck.”
Keegan now rubbed the side of the lighter with his thumb and smiled. Vierhaus said nothing. He continued to stare at the lighter, which Keegan held up by its base.
“Quite handsome, isn’t it? According to Lady Penelope, you gave this to the actor. And this is what tripped him up. That’s where I got it, Willie. From
Siebenundzwanzig,
the night I tracked him down and killed him. And you know who tipped me off, Willie? Avrum Wolffson.”
Vierhaus’s attention flicked from Wolf
f
son to Keegan to the lighter.
“Think about that. You Germans love irony, so think of the irony here. You sent Jenny Gould to Dachau because of the Black Lily and it was the Black Lily that was Twenty-seven’s downfall—and is now yours.”
“Who
. . .
are.
. .
you?” Vierhaus croaked.
“I’m the man whose fiancée you murdered. I’m the man you chased out of Germany with his tail between his legs. And I’m the man who put
Siebenundzwanzig
out of business.”
Recognition suddenly changed the expression on the Nazi’s face.
“Keegan,” he whispered as if to himself. “The
Ire,”
“Very good, Willie,” Keegan said, and there was a hard edge in his voice. “You pass the course. I chased Twenty-seven for almost a year. And I’ve waited six more years for this day. You have any doubt that I’ll dog you to your grave? If you think hiding behind a coat and tie is going to save your ass, you’re crazy. You’re just as guilty as
Himmler
and Goring and the rest of the paperhanger’s boys. That’s why it’s important to nail you.”
The confused professor rubbed the back of his hand across one cheek.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“An old friend of yours named Danzler at Dachau. We went in when they liberated it. Avrum here convinced Danzler to give up your location.”
Vierhaus’s eyes bulged as Wolffson stepped closer. He looked up at the man that Hitler had hated with psychotic rage. Wolffson looked down at him without expression.
His shoulders sagged as the pieces fell together. There had been so many murders. So many executions. But now it came back to him.
“So, that is what this is all about? Retribution, e
h
, Keegan?”
“No, it’s for me, Vierhaus. So I can put the last twelve years behind me and go home to my wife, Vanessa, and my little girl, Temple, and enjoy the rest of my life. It’s about little monsters like you, too. There’s so many big shots ahead of you, they would never have gotten around to you. You would have walked free. But I know what you are, Vierhaus. I know how you whispered your obscenities in Hitler’s ear. Killing the actor was self-defense. But you, you’re the cherry on the strudel, Willie.”
“So you even know who he was, eh?”
“I figured it out with the help of some friends in military intelligence and some old newspapers. You see, I got to know this guy like I know myself. One of his tricks was to make everyone believe he was dead when he wanted to disappear. So first we went through the records we seized in Berlin and
found out when he was recruited. After that it was a cakewalk. I was going through the newspapers, reading obituaries, hoping maybe something would click. And suddenly there it was staring at me in big, bold headlines. ‘Actor Dies in Mountain Auto Crash.’ The man without a face. The premier actor of Germany. The man who mastered dialects and spoke six languages.”
Keegan held his hands out to his sides, palms up.
“So this is what it’s all about.” Vierh
a
us shook his head in disbelief.
“She was one woman among six
m
illion.
A moment in time.”
Keegan turned to Wolf[son. “Excuse us for a minute, will you, Av?”
The tall resistance fighter left the ro
o
m.
“This is an official warrant,” Keegan said, laying a folded sheet on the desk. “You’re a civilian, Vierhaus. This is not for genocide or any of those major, major crimes against humanity. It officially charges you with one count of murder. And I’m going to see you tried and I’m going to be in the front row when they stretch your neck. Of course, I don’t know if you can understand this. I hope so. You people killed s
o
many you can’t even comprehend the value of a single life anymore. Except maybe your
o
wn.”
Vierhaus didn’t answer. He stared down at his dirty fingernails.
“On the other hand, I want to go home,” Keegan said. He took a German P-38 out of his pocket.
V
ierhaus’s eyes grew narrower. Fear slowly materialized in the bloodshot, lifeless orbs ringed with deep shadows.
“I don’t want to have to hang around here waiting for them to get around to your trial,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“You don’t believe in forgiving your enemies,
Ire?”
Vierhaus said nervously.
“I believe in the old Irish proverb, Willie. Forgive your enemies—but get even first.”
He removed the clip from the pistol, put it in his pocket and ejected the shell in the chamber. It clattered on the desk and rolled against a book. Keegan put the
gu
n on the desk.